2/14/09 – photography


            Hullo! Today was brisk and cold. A bit of sun throughout the day – it felt quite nice as I drove down the highway, trying to find an instrument warehouse (no such luck) – but I think it dimmed by evening. Spring may be conquering the sun, but Winter still holds tight to the air.

            I’ll be continuing the Sailor story, and I think today he’ll hear someone upon the staircase. Perhaps we’ll even enter the forest…. And I’ll do my best to use the word I find : )

            So, the word: photography. (Hmm…)


            The shore receded into fog. The crashing of the waves washed over the air and hid the noise of the gulls with its steady lapping. White foam sprayed against the sides of his boat, and he felt the strain of pulling against the current. The sailor gritted his teeth and propped his feet against the seat in the bow, on which the bundle sat quietly. He dug in deep with the oars and fought against the sea. There was a vengeance in its power, a will within its deep that pushed against his small boat with every pounding wave and sought to drive him back upon the shore. T\he more he pulled at the oars the greater the sea’s push became, and soon his heart cried out to free of the sight of that beach. The bundle began to cry out before him, a retched cry that burned in his eyes and bid him to give in to the waves and return once more to the waiting sand.

            But he would not. The louder the cry became the stronger was his resolve to be done with the bundle and this shore. Thus he rowed hard and vigorous, and in time came to be a dozen or more fathoms from the east.

            Then it seemed to him that he heard a call that was different from that of the birds. It passed across his hearing but so intent was he upon the rowing that he didn’t think twice of it. But it came again, a sharp cry that was not animal nor ocean, but in fact human. He looked up from the floor of the boat and looked back to the shore, and there, upon the second mezzanine of the wooden staircase, was a figure, small and black in the gray air.

            His heart clutched within him. He cast a fast glance at the bundle to make sure it did not leap overboard, and then he looked back to the shore. The figure was moving now, descending step by step down to the beach. The strength in his arms lessened, and though he continued to row the sea gained mastery of the boat and began to push him back toward the shore. A thicker cloud passed over the sun, dimming the already faded light. The gulls swooped close and low, the waves thundered and crashed, the rain pattered on his shoulders, and he at last gave up rowing and let himself be pulled back to the shore and toward the strolling, dark figure.


            Well, there it is. My mom called near the end so the last sentence was finished an hour or two later. But it’s finished. And once again, I didn’t really use the word. I had an idea toward which I was heading, but I didn’t get there, nor do I think I would have if my mom hadn’t called. But what do you do. The point is to write, and I did.

            Till next time.



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